The 747 of bribes

Pardon Senator Menendez, learn to fly with Sinema and give me my own "Goldfinger Jet"

Last Christmas I gave my wife a beautiful piece of jewelry which I picked up at a discount outlet mall.

I forgot to turn the box over and peel off the high price tag before I wrapped it in some “Happy Birthday Snoopy” wrapping paper I found in our closet.

In the end I was happy she saw the sticker. I wanted her to know how much it cost. To which she responded, “That is so tacky. And dumb. It’s the thought that counts!”

Puh-lease. Tell President Trump it’s the thought that counts. Tell the Royal Family of Qatar it’s the thought that counts. What exactly was the thought?

I hope the Qataris leave a huge bar code sticker on the underside of the Goldfinger jet they’re given to their American Caddy.

“Peel it off! Off. Now.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“On second thought leave it there.”

“What?”

“Let the world know what my friendship is worth. Helluva bar code.”

I am not a superstitious man, but long ago I made up mythological system for myself. If I want to get something, anything, I pretend it is best to create a sort of a cosmic vacuum by selfless giving. If you give selflessly, good things will just come to you, or at the very least, you’ll cultivate the habit and heart of a giving person and that will give you a life well lived.

I practice Christo-Buddhist traditions within my indifferent godless chaotic cosmos.

I’ll bet the Royal Family of Qatar feels the very same way. Conflicted. Dare we ask Donnie for anything after giving him a mere 747?

I was a particularly whiny, self-centered, spoiled bratty seven-year-old. Hard to believe I know. I distinctly remember that “Jetsonian age” Christmas morning, when I found Santa had set out a bazillion gifts for me and after I opened everyone, I felt like I didn’t owe Santa any gratitude except just to continue being a “good boy” for another year. It was my Trump period.

I can relate to poor Donald. All he wants is his pretty aero plane. From those nice Royal people. And it won’t cost American taxpayers a thing! And it will only cost America it’s reputation. And our international reputation is already shot.

So why the beef? Dumb grownups. Always trying to ruin everything. Haters!

Remember Senator Bob Menendez and his acquisitive spouse? Wow. They aimed low in a world of high rollers.

What a loser. He’s serving eleven years in the federal slammer for bribery for small change. For nickels. He was working for Egypt for scraps. They sold their souls to Egypt for a pitiful closet full of cash, some gold bars, help with a mortgage and a Benz. He should have held out for a gold jet. Or one of the pyramids.

The Master Sergeant, my dad, taught me humility. Be grateful. For everything you got. Be grateful for work. Understand how rewarding hard work can be. And then after I did my homework and the yardwork it was back to my Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte cage. “You earned my respect, “he’d say as he locked the kennel and tossed me a dried kipper, “Be proud of yourself.”

Maybe that’s what the sheiks of Qatar are teaching Donald Trump right now.

Take this fine aircraft, boy. You earned it.

Oh, it’s so pretty

There’s a good boy. He’s a good boy.

Oh, it’s so pretty. Mine, mine, mine.

Good Donnie. Good boy.

He’ll be a trained falcon in no time. Remove the hood!

Kill the dove.

Earn your meat scraps.

The young Qatari Princes should call Trump constantly. To heckle him on their dad’s private Qatari line to the Oval.

“How do you like my uncle’s stinky old plane?”

“If you find a bone saw between the seat cushions that belongs to the Crowned Prince of Saudi Arabia. He wants it back.”

“That smell in the sofa? It’s sweat from a troupe of trafficked Armenian sex workers.”

“Did the Sultan tell you Russell Brand puked in the bed?”

Perhaps there’s a weird tradition of thinking giving someone a ridiculous gift and expecting political favors is the custom. The royal family of Qatar is asking us to see it not as a tawdry, nakedly criminal, vile and vulgar bribe but to see it as a treasure, a tailsman that will bring wisdom to Trump for only he is virtuous enough to possess it.

Pass the airsick heaving bag.

“Remember, the way of the Qatari, Donald. Be grateful for everything.”

“Oh, I am.”

“Remember. Wealth does not equal happiness. “

“I’ll give it some thought. Where are the keys to the plane?”

“In the glove compartment. On top of the Qatari legislative and foreign policy wish list we wanted you to have. And to read.”

One Christmas tradition provokes me every year.

In private. Where Santa can’t hear me. Or Trump’s secret police. If they catch me warring on Christmas no one’s getting any dollies this year.

One of the traditions I loath the most is the wrapping of Christmas gifts.

It’s a task that takes at least a day and a half of gift wrap hunting, wrangling, wrinkling, measuring, ripping, cutting, losing scissors, finding the beginning of the tape roll on the tape roll that’s nearly invisible and forgetting what’s in the gift you just wrapped and who it’s for.

I should have gotten the kids one big 747. Can’t gift wrap one of those babies. Could have done what the Royal Family did. They just bought a gift bag the size of a 747 at the Walgreens in downtown Jeddah.

My love for my kids was unconditional.

As a result, they’re all successful. Their lawyers compelled me to write that. Maybe the government of Qatar is hoping that their unconditional generous love for Donald Trump will inspire Donald Trump to become a better human being, knowing he is loved.

Heck, it was just an old hand-me-down 747, a real fixer-upper that’ll cost more to fix up than it’s worth,

They hope Trump, like a modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas morning will awaken, transformed. “And I will keep my plane. Only I will use it as a flying hospital for Gaza orphans.”

Instead, Trump will wake up like he does every day, sleep deprived, hungry for retribution and seeking tribute. Because he remembers.

My wife can remember gifts I gave her 15 years ago.

She never forgets.

On the good side she never brings the past up in argument. It’s a remarkable idea she taught me. We’ve yet to let a difference escalate to yelling in all our years together. Or anger. No difference is worth it. We are blessed with a great deal of common humor between us. The multiple stabbings are another story all together.

I just laugh when she brings up what a moron I can be.

I’ll bet that’s how Donald feels about the whole Royal Family of Qatar. I bet they ride dune buggies together behind the palace. I just know they josh around, fly falcons and talk about their shared love of gold objects and their hatred for sand traps.

I had a vision.

15-years from now, in the warm future, a young Prince of Qatar will visit a 93-year-old Donald Trump, still in exile, at the finest Memory Care Center in Moscow.

“Donald? Remember me? I’m from the Royal Family of Qatar. My grandfather gave you that gold $237 billion airplane.”

“Sorry. I don’t recognize you. Have you seen my plane? I left it with my keys. In the microwave. With Vladimir.”

I heard one of the princes got a good laugh at Donald’s expense. When the Prince was there to hand over the Qatari Goldfinger Jet to Donnie, he slapped him on the back and informed him that “the plane requires 300,000,000,000,000,000 AAA batteries. And they’re not included.”

Unless your bribery is intended to quiet an obese brat named Donnie-famous for tantrums in a crowded store or a crowded planet -I’m against it. Perhaps that’s what Qatar is doing, soothing the great deal maker with a juicy num-num as they take him for a long stroll through a crowded winding bazaar, until together they turn down a dark quiet alley and he’s rolled like a human golf bag.

Someday at the Trump Presidential Library gift shop there will be Mattel, Playskool and Lego versions of Trump’s gold Air Force One available for MAGA kids of all ages. For only $299.99, tariffs not included. His gold 747 will be in the parking lot, up on wheels, up on blocks, rusting like a bad Atlantic City ride idea.

Getting gifts can be so emotional.

Imagine Donnie’s surprise when a middle eastern nation offered him a multi-million dollar gift. “For me? No. Really? Forgive the tears, sheik. I’m just so touched by this. Did you weld it all yourself. Is this really all for me? You don’t mind if I wipe my tears on your headscarf, do you, Abu?”

When I got the gift of an awesome red tricycle for Christmas, my next-door neighbor Tommy Knapp cried, “I wish MY mommy would give ME a pretty tricycle. “

I cycled past him in his driveway. “Your mommy wishes you’d move out. You’re 27.”

Meanwhile today’s spineless Republican politicians wish their Sheik donors would give them a gold plane. A little Lear jet would be nice. How about a helicopter? How come I never got a helicopter? Would a shoulder fired missile launcher be too much? Jeez, my vote must be worth something!

Your votes will be worth something, they’ll be worth remembering by historians as evidence of your profound corruption.

And you, dear patriots, thought a corrupt oligarchy would be easy to resist.

I see romance ahead for the power and money loving “Queen of K Street” Kirsten Sinema.

Kirsten Sinema has offered to give Trump flying lessons.

I can pilot us anywhere in my slightly used pink 747 from the Saudis. It’s a later model. Travolta taught me to fly with his 747. Victor Orban loaned me his as a trainer. I nearly bumped Sean Hannity’s 747 at Moscow International! Would you like a gold submarine from the King of Siam, Donnie?

Kirsten Sinema?

Lobbyist for the Overlords.

You were a Senator? From Arizona, right?

Arid-what? Never heard of it.

And thus, it is with corruption today. We never heard of it.